Don't Rock The Boat
by Contemperina
Summary: Truth be told, on a scale of 1 to 10, where 1 was “Well, this isn’t awkward at all,” and 10 was “I’m going to frigging die, I swear!” the situation rung in at about an 8. Maybe a high 7 or a low 9. Neither really wanted to think about it. -Rock and Rule-
1. Don't Rock The Boat

In "Rock and Rule," Duncan and Courtney were the first two across the red carpet. Which, you know, means trouble…

**Disclaimer: The Total Drama franchise is not mine. **

* * *

"Cool. Whatever!"

Just two words. Two simple, succinct words, yet they somehow contained a saturation of boredom and indifference which, up until that point, hadn't been achieved by any other member of the human species. It was all enough to make Courtney shudder where she sat, swallowed up by the plushy rockstar chair in the far corner of the set. Then again, she thought, maybe that saturation still hadn't been achieved by a member of the _human _species, seeing as Duncan was hardly what she would classify as human. Ever since she'd arrived at the film lot, he'd been acting more like a primate. Or some other primitive species.

Chris blabbered on for a couple more moments about how Duncan had put himself in line for some 'serious lawsuit action'—duh—but scribbling his number on the groupie's stomach had been a nice touch! _Oh, yeah._ _Absolutely_. Chris then made a hasty exit, shouting out something to the effect of, "Chef! Where do we keep the duct tape?", and left Duncan and Courtney alone in the makeshift room, tension between them increasing by the millisecond.

Courtney quickly pulled out her swag, Chris's autobiography, and pretended to immerse herself in **Chapter One: A Star Is Born**, but she ended up eyeing Duncan from over the tops of the pages. She liked to think she was being sly (though deep in heart she knew she was no secret agent), and watched the delinquent as he plopped down in the chair next to her and spread out, obviously pleased with himself for his performance on the red carpet. He didn't speak, though, so Courtney continued 'ignoring' him.

For both Duncan and Courtney, being alone together, especially in such proximity, had become somewhat difficult. Truth be told, on a scale of one to ten (where one was "Well, this isn't awkward at all," and ten was "I'm going to frigging die, I swear!") the situation rung in at about an eight. Maybe a high seven or a low nine, depending on a number of variables that neither teen really wanted to think about.

Courtney credited only one thing to the current state of affairs—she'd arrived on the film lot with just a single thing in mind: winning. She would NOT be booted off the season because some pathetic ginger dweeb had a grudge against her 'boyfriend'! Not this time! After having discovered Harold's motives back at the TDI resort, she'd promised herself that, even though Duncan was included in the season, he was coming second to everything else. She would make it clear to the rest of the contenders that not only was he not her boyfriend—she _hated_ him! Her brain, though, always seemed to get caught on that sort of sentence, like it just wouldn't allow her to believe it was true—not without a fight, anyway. _No matter_. That was unimportant, she decided, diving deeper into Chris's autobiography. Duncan was _dead_ to her!

Duncan, on the other hand, was just trying to figure out where he stood. Where did he rank in the world the way Courtney saw it through her "I guarantee it, I am going to _obliterate_ you!"-colored glasses? Or maybe they were bitch-colored. At any rate, they definitely weren't rose-colored; not even close. Ever since she'd arrived on the film lot, she'd been putting some serious effort into pushing him and his romantic efforts away. Duncan had been slow to catch on, he had to admit (because, come on, Courtney had always acted like a bipolar psycho, even when she was desperately in love with him), but after a while, he'd become wise to what was happening. She was seriously demonstrating less bipolarity and showing more…polarity. Specifically, polarity to the "I hate your guts!" end of the spectrum, not the "I secretly love you but will never admit it," side. Was that how polarity worked? Duncan wasn't sure; he'd flunked out of chemistry with a glorious final grade of 47%. That had been a proud day for his mother. Anyway, as much as he liked his Princess, her polarity was putting a serious cramp in his style. He wasn't into uber-bitches. Most of the time.

These were the things that plagued the pair's minds as they settled in to wait for the other four contestants to make their way across the red carpet and into the little room. Chris had, predictably, squished all the chairs into the single corner, so they wouldn't be caught by the cameras, and Duncan had, predictably, sat in the chair directly beside Courtney. Not predictably, however, neither spoke, too busy attempting to ignore each other and that stupid close proximity.

Those who have experienced these conditions themselves, whether on Duncan's end or Courtney's, should be familiar with what is going on. However, for those without either personality type A or B, there is a simple explanation: Courtney and Duncan were plainly _stuck_. They were precariously balanced on a highly-tippable surface, like a ship marooned on a rock with just two passengers on opposite ends. If Passenger One made a move towards the other, the boat would tip in that direction. If Passenger Two moved, the boat would tip in the opposite direction. So, the two just stand there, waiting for the other person to send them to their imminent doom.

Of course, Duncan and Courtney weren't passengers on a boat, they weren't marooned on a rock, they weren't strangers who had never met before, and death wasn't a factor—at least not yet. Still, the situation remained. If Duncan vocalized the witty comment he was planning, he could tip the boat in the direction of a who-can-cause-more -damage-to-the-other-fastest? type contest. If Courtney articulated her thoughts on Duncan's behavior, she could tip the boat in the direction of an I-can't-believe-you-just-spat-on-that-cardboard-girl's-foot! type argument. And finally, if neither spoke, they could sit there in silence until the next contestant walked in, and they would later lie awake in bed, wondering if they'd missed out on an amusing argument because of their unwillingness to speak. It wouldn't have been the first time; overall, it was an entirely unfortunate situation.

Courtney, quickly becoming sickened by Chris's life story transferred to paper, decided to play a quick game of _What's Duncan Thinking Right Now? _He was waiting for her to say something, clearly. _Well_, she thought_, that isn't going to happen_! She would be strong and say nothing, no matter how much her only distraction made her want to curl up and die. She turned back to said distraction and flipped the page over on words she hadn't bothered to read. Silence. Sweet silence. Wonderful silence.

Two minutes later, she spoke.

Over those two minutes, in which Chef had exited and returned with a massive roll of duct-tape, Courtney had felt her resolve cracking, partially due to Chris's autobiography, partially because Duncan's unwavering stare was making her uncomfortable. He was probably enjoying it, too! Courtney threw her swag to the ground, fixed a stony glare on him, and said the first thing that came to mind. "You know, what you did out there was completely inappropriate."

Duncan smirked. He'd been sure that she would crack first and chose to find satisfaction in that little thing—Lord knew he wasn't getting satisfaction anywhere else. "Oh, please, Princess," he retorted with an amused snort. "What have I ever done that _hasn't_ been inappropriate?"

Courtney's lips pursed of their own accord. He had a point there, but she pressed on, seeing as it was too late to turn back—the boat had been tipped. "Okay, yes, I see your point. But spitting on the photographer's foot?" she asked, turning her rejected swag over so Chris's face wasn't staring at her quite so prominently. "Was that really necessary?"

"Nope." Duncan deepened his smirk, leaning in closer to Courtney. Teasing her was still too easy. He could see her getting more and more jittery in direct proportion to how close his face was to hers. "Was it _really_ necessary," he began softly, "For you to take five minutes to get up the courage to talk to me?"

Any warm feelings Courtney had felt rushed away in an instant. She pushed him away by eyebrow ring, declaring, "I'll have you know, it doesn't take any amount of courage to talk to _you. _I merely didn't have anything to say." God, why was she being such a weakling? Courtney decided she would take some time later that night to cultivate her _I hate you with my entire_ _being_ face. She'd thought she had it down pat, but perhaps not…

"Sure, sure," Duncan replied sarcastically; he wouldn't let her go so easily. "What're you thinking about, then?"

Courtney smiled deviously, narrowing her eyes. "I was just wondering why you weren't freaked out by those standees out there," she said slowly, gesturing to the red carpet. "I mean, Celine scared you so badly, I just figured, you know…_What do you say to taking chances?_" she sang, smiling sweetly.

Duncan slapped his hands to his ears, glaring at her. "Shut up!" Courtney shut up. "Now_ that_ was a low blow, and you know it," he said, stabbing a finger at her chest.

"It was, wasn't it?" she asked haughtily, flipping her hair. She turned back to Duncan, awaiting whatever his defense would be.

(Duncan, however, had never been one to play defense.)

"Oh, yeah? Well, why didn't you take one of those snobby, high-society finger sandwiches? They remind you too much of green Jell-O?" he asked, picturing Courtney quaking at the top of the diving board, the tub of green slime below.

"No!" Courtney yelled, picturing the exact same thing. The _horror. _"I'm just not hungry!" She propelled herself out of the chair and began pacing, careful to keep her back to Duncan.

He waited for her stomach to growl loudly and conveniently give away her lie, but unfortunately, life wasn't a cartoon, so her stomach stayed silent. God, things could never just be _easy, _could they? Duncan moved on to his back-up plan, getting out of his chair and sneaking up on the brunette, catching her around the waist. "I don't know," he said playfully, squeezing her between the ribs and hip. "It doesn't feel like there's much here. I'd say you're in _desperate_ need of some finger sandwiches."

Was that a complement? Courtney wasn't sure, but she felt herself blushing anyway, held in Duncan's grip as she was. That was stupid. What kind of involuntary response was blushing supposed to be, anyway? It was so useless. In any case, the insult sort of sounded like a complement, but it probably wasn't supposed to be. She was probably reading too far into it; she found herself doing that a lot. Duncan didn't give out complements. _Sigh. _It seemed the only option remaining was to continue the fight.

"Duncan," she said evenly, twisting around to look at him.

"Uh-huh?"

"Don't make me break my record for how many times I _kick_ you in one day," she said, purposefully shifting her gaze to his package.

_Shoot. _He let go of her like she was on fire as soon as the threat sunk in, but not before saying, "Actually, your record is three times in one day." _God, that was a great day._ "And also, I think we both know you're just _dying_ to have me!" he added as an afterthought, wiggling his eyebrows at her as he had so many times before. Its effect hadn't lessened at all, not since the first time he'd made the moves on her and had been surprisingly unsuccessful. The effect? Instantaneous frenzy, oftentimes resulting in the princess saying something she hadn't necessarily planned on.

"Wha?—but—not in—never!—" she spluttered, jumping away from Duncan and his grin. _Response, response, response, come on, Courtney! _God, she needed to get better at that whole thinking-on-the-ball thing."Well, at least I'm not so desperate for some action that I'll write my number on the stomach of a girl who _isn't real!" _she finally managed, jerking her head in the direction of the cardboard jungle.

_Ooh. Nice one. _"Correction," Duncan said, holding up a finger. "That girl was completely real. She just wasn't alive."

Courtney gaped at him. "Same difference!"

Duncan shrugged once, acknowledging her statement, and turned to face her. "Yeah. Pretty much."

"What th—?" Duncan wasn't supposed to _agree _with her. That most certainly wasn't how their relationship worked! "Then why'd you give her your number?"

"That groupie?" he started. Courtney nodded once, raising her eyebrows expectantly. "She's _special_." What did he mean by special? Duncan wasn't really sure, but it seemed fitting.

"_Special_?" Courtney repeated. "She's _special_?!" What the heck did he mean by special? He must have meant something. He always meant _something. _"…More special than _ME?!" _Courtney didn't have his number, she realized sourly. Not that she wanted his number (because she didn't!)—it was just the principle of the thing. She should have gotten it before some not-real, flat, mid-drift showing, slutty cardboard cut-out. That was what made sense, right?

Duncan smirked at her, a pleased twinkle in his eye. "_What?" _she asked, aggravated.

He tipped his head towards her, watching her slyly. "You know you said that last part out loud, don't you?"

Courtney pulled her eyebrows together, momentarily deterred from her jealous rampage. "Said _what_ out loud?" _Special?...She's special?!... _What came next?

Duncan laughed and repeated, in an unflattering and girly falsetto, "More special than _ME?_"

_Shoot. _Courtney huffed, searching through her brain for a way out of the hole she'd dug herself and finding no escape. She had said that out loud. _Honestly_? Was she starting to lose her grip on her carefully refined _I-don't-like-you! _façade? That would be a complete tragedy. She would never be able to make it through the rest of the competition at the rate she was going! "All I meant was_ oh my GOD_!"

No, Courtney had not experienced some sort of mental epiphany (unfortunately). No, she would not wake up the next morning with the immense realization that she had been acting like a straight-up bee-otch for the entirety of the season. No, she had not realized that of which the rest of us have already been aware of for some time now: she was meant to be with Duncan, and fighting it was like trying to destroy the universe; it was probably possible to do in some way, shape, or form, but wouldn't it be easier to just say, "Okay. I accept that I cannot defeat this force within me," and concede? It would be easier, but no. Just no.

Courtney had been saved—or perhaps had her life put in jeopardy, because it all depended on how you looked at it—by none other than Owen, barreling through the door with a remarkable semblance to a bowling ball, especially since Courtney and Duncan were feeling like pins.

Duncan looked up just in time for his reflexes to kick in, telling him to push Courtney to the floor and to dive on top of her a second later. He proceeded to do so without considering any of the possible, immediate outcomes, and no one could blame him, really—that _was _the definition of reflexes, right? And hey, at least the pair was still alive! Had they not ducked, Owen's massive form would have steam-rolled right over the pair and they'd be dead. Unfortunately, half of that pair would probably be dead soon anyway. Namely, the Duncan half.

Courtney, smothered under him as she was, wasn't pleased with the arrangement. She would have rather been crushed by Owen than crushed by Duncan!—or so she told herself. Angrily pushing him to the ground and kicking him in the side once for good measure, she stood, brushed herself off, and stalked over to her old chair, collapsing into it and snatching up Chris's autobiography once more. Or possibly twice more. Thrice? She'd lost count.

Duncan pulled himself up as well, angrily rubbing where her foot had connected with his flesh, watching her quizzically for an explanation for her ingratitude. Subsequently, not receiving any acknowledgement of his existence, he returned to his chair beside hers.

"Good book?" Chris asked, skipping over to where Courtney sat. _Where did he come from?_ She glared intensely. The two people she hated most, in one room, surrounding her! What were the odds? "All righty, then…" Chris said in his trademark snarky demeanor, turning to Duncan. "Duncan, my man, gotten a call from your lady yet?" he asked, referring to the groupie of the previous quarrel.

"Yeah," he sneered in response. "She wanted me to tell you she had a fun time with _your mom _last night."

"Dude. You just crossed a line," Chris announced, holding up his arms in warning. "BUT, because I'm such a good host, I'll leave you three alone. Jeez. Yo, Chef!" he called, squatting down to look through the Owen-shaped hole in the side of the set. "You better get on top of this hole, stat. This cardboard's not going to duct tape itself, you know!" He jumped through the hole in the wall and scampered away.

Chef grunted something in response which caused Chris to wince and back away slowly.

Peeling himself off the floor of the set, Owen called "Hey, guys!" and walked over to where the two sat. "That was some challenge, huh?" The other teens steadfastly ignored him, as well as each other. "Yeah. Pretty kooky…" No response. "Well, I guess I'll just go and sit over… here." He took a seat. "Yup. Now, I'm sitting. Right here! Next to you guys…"

His thumbs began twiddling faster than any Courtney had ever seen, and she briefly wondered how many calories he was burning by doing so. _Not enough, obviously, _she thought wryly, sizing up his fat rolls. It was critical of her, yes, but how hard was it to get on a diet? She felt a heart attack coming on just from looking at him.

Beth walked into the room next, followed by Lindsay, and then Harold. Neither Duncan nor Courtney spoke for the remainder of the time in that room, not even to greet the new arrivals. They weren't friends with any of them anyway.

This silent treatment, of course, excluded the time when Duncan called out, "Get on with it, Doris!" and caused Harold to break into tears and karate chop the remaining standees. It also excluded the time after that when Courtney called him an "Idiotic, pathetic low-life! I bet even the _cockroaches_ hate you," in response.

And, it excluded when he shot back, "I'm sure you would know, Darling."

_But_, excluding those times, they said nothing. It would appear that their ship had sunk.

* * *

Any guesses as to my thoughts on last season? Anyway, I hope you liked it, regardless of whether or not you feel the same way as I do (aka: Why did the creators make D and C act so EVIL towards each other this time around? Not cool.)

And guess what? This is going to be a real story! With multiple chapters! How long it lasts, I'm not sure. More reviews equals longer story, I suppose...

Thanks for reading, and please review or send me a PM! :)

~Rina


	2. The Pen Is Mightier Than The Sword

Whoa, another chapter! Thanks to everyone for the wonderful reviews--the unanimous opinion was that I should continue this as a serious story, so here it is.

All you need to know: It's night, Duncan's in his trailer, and he's rather confused.

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**Chapter 2: The Pen Is Mightier Than The Sword**

It must have been destiny. Karma? No—fate. The will of the almighty Lord above, or whoever it was who saw over the affairs of mal-doing delinquents and disgraceful teens. Duncan figured that was the only explanation for why he was still lying in his bunk as opposed to some dilapidated limousine on the way to the Aftermath show.

…Or so Owen had told him. Apparently, a talk show was waiting for them after the competition, but the idea of an Aftermath sounded far-fetched in Duncan's mind. Who would want to re-watch stuff that had already happened on television? He wasn't sure of exactly what was going on with the losers, wherever they were, but since Owen had come back, the lard had been acting weird, giving Duncan the feeling that he was no longer someone to be trusted completely. Call it his criminal instincts.

In any case, Duncan _hoped_ Owen was lying about the Aftermath; the idea of not being able to head back to a Playa Des Losers-type place after the show ended was beyond depressing. What else was there to live for? Besides the million, of course—but that was obvious.

Fate _must_ have been on his side. Why else would Lindsay have voted herself off? Duncan had known she was stupid, but not being able to tell the difference between her pretty face and Duncan's pierced one was a whole new brand of dumb. _Oh well._ Duncan wasn't going to ask questions, just so long as he'd made it through another Awards Ceremony.

It was a shame that Lindsay had gone home instead of Beth, though. Lindsay was better to look at, not to mention Duncan would have rather faced off against her in the finals. All he would've had to do to win against Barbie was tell her that the money was contaminated with ugly fumes, which would make her hideous if she spent the cash. She'd have been out of there quicker than Duncan at a crime scene! Piece of cake.

Beth, on the other hand, was a different matter entirely. Duncan got the feeling she wouldn't be tricked with stories of ugly fumes. _And_, Duncan thought, snickering to himself, she was already ugly, so why would it matter? _Oh, so judgmental, _the angel on his shoulder chastised while the devil spat back, _Life is cruel, isn't it?_

It was these thoughts of the other girls that lead him straight to thoughts of Courtney. Duncan didn't have a clue why; Beth, Lindsay, and Courtney were separate beings entirely, which should have been kept in independent spectrums of his mind. Unfortunately, nearly all trains of thought had been leading into the Station of Courtney lately, despite Duncan's best efforts at rerouting the tracks.

He pulled his arms out from under the blankets and folded them behind his head, trying to clear his mind of all thoughts. He'd heard it was a good technique for getting to sleep, emptying the brain. It was tough, and the mental silence generally didn't last for more than a few seconds before his mind spat something random and stupid at him, but at least it alerted him as to what was at the forefront of his thoughts.

…Courtney probably used that technique too, what with all the yogic jib-jab and meditative breathing she was always doing. She probably would have approved of—

_Goddammit! _Duncan cursed internally, cutting off the idea. _So much for emptying my mind._

The thing was, Duncan was just so. Dang. Confused. While on the film lot, was he supposed to turn himself blue in the face going after this—this _girl?_ Whoever lived upstairs definitely didn't intend for _him _to win the million dollars; that was the equivalent of unlimited bail money! He could get away with whatever he wanted with that kind of cash! No, that wasn't why he was there (probably. Who knew for sure?), and though he was all for fighting against the fates, he should have had some other goal too.

Probably.

God, was life complicated or was it _extremely_ complicated? His job would've been ten times easier if Courtney hadn't gone berserk and lost all hints of appreciation for his felonious (yet loveable!) antics. However, she _had_ completely and utterly lost interest, and every time Duncan tried to pull her back, she shut him down without a second glance, claiming the competition was "more important than any sort of relationship I might maintain with the likes of _you_."

Sure, this was true for both of them; Duncan was intent on winning too, but it wasn't like he was going to stab out his eyeballs if he didn't get invincibility every week! He _was_ going to win—he was determined—but he was also bent on having at least a little fun along the way. Princess, though…she wasn't even a Princess anymore. The nickname just didn't fit after all that had gone down. She'd been acting more like an evil dictator than royalty.

Things were just different, no matter how much Duncan tried to trick himself into thinking they were the same. Maybe this all called for a new nickname entirely. Mussolini? Hitler? Stalin?

Still in bed, he moaned internally. He was sounding like such a _girl! _All stupid and contemplative and emotional and "oh, boo-hoo, what am I going to do with my life?" He was channeling sap like an oak tree; he could feel it melting him from the inside. Those evil, sugary, oak tree minions… If Courtney ever had a sappy guy, she'd pulverize him until he was nothing more than a gooey pile of syrupy crud. _No! _Duncan thought. _There is no way _I'm_ turning into a pile of syrupy crud. Not now, not ever._

At this, all his thoughts looped right back to where he'd started the night. Was it even worth it, trying to break through Courtney's shell of infinite evil, which she'd obviously created in an attempt at actually _winning_ the season? (Ha! Fat chance. Duncan could only keep her out of trouble for so long.) Breaking such a shell sounded like a really difficult and possibly not-worth-the-trouble task, but his only other option was to duck out and cut his losses, accepting that the fun of last season was over, never to be found again.

Geoff and DJ were gone. Owen was being weird, to say the least. Even making fun of Harold was losing its original hilarity since there was no audience to appreciate Duncan's sense of humor. If he couldn't turn to Courtney, what would happen? He'd be forced to befriend Beth, that was what! And that idea was just plain gross.

God, all those thoughts were so lame! To Duncan's mind—he was wide awake, despite everything, as his best thinking was often done at night—cutting losses sounded a whole lot like giving up, which wasn't something that was going to fly. He needed some stunt to pull, a last-ditch attempt at hooking his girl before giving up on her entirely and turning his attention to, say, Heather.

He shuddered where he lay, shoving his arms back under the covers to get rid of his goosebumps. God, Heather. Wooing her did _not_ sound like fun, but was there any other choice? A man not playing the field was a man without any game, and a man without any game was hardly a man at all. And Duncan? He was a man. A _manly _man. Not guitar-wielding-cliché Trent or thinks-he's-cool Cody.

Duncan was the real deal, and he knew it.

But, back to the topic of mass concern, judging by the conversation he'd had with Courtney earlier that day, there was nothing he could do for her while stranded on the film lot—nothing she wanted that she didn't already have, thanks to her lawyerly hook-up. After all, when it got down to it, all Duncan had on him was a lighter, a knife, and his very identity, none of which Courtney would want. Not a chance.

But suddenly, mulling over the words exchanged between them earlier, it struck him: She didn't want his lighter, nor his knife. But his identity? That was something he always had to offer…

Man. He really _did_ get his best thinking done at night.

_-=-_

"Pssssssssst! Guys, wake up," Duncan hissed, leaning over the edge of his top bunk to face Owen, who was sleeping below. "Owen, wake up!"

"Whaaaaa?" the boy mumbled, peeling his eyes open one by one. "Time for the all-you-can-eat buffet already? But we haven't even finished the waffle eating contest…" After a moment of vague indecision, his eyes drifted shut once more, and he lapsed back into sleep.

Groaning, Duncan hopped down from his bunk and jabbed Owen in the shoulder with a bare toe, pulling on yesterday's shirt with his hands. "Snap out of it, Fatty!" he yelled, jerking Owen awake. "I have business that needs doing, at it involves the two of you… Kind of."

Owen snapped his eyes open wide, trying to make sense of the shadowy darkness surrounding him. "Ah! Duncan!" And then, looking around in disappointment, he added, "You're not a fudge sundae."

"No dip," Duncan muttered sarcastically. "Thanks for noticing." He turned to Harold's bed, on the opposite wall. "Harold? You awake?" Receiving no response, Duncan lathered up one finger with spit and proceeded to give the sleeping boy a Wet Willy.

Letting out a disgusted, choking sort of noise, Harold feebly swatted Duncan's hand away from his ear. A second later, he pulled his head up off his pillow and squinted into the darkness. "Well, I'm up now," he wheezed, reaching under the bed for his glasses. Upon finding them and shoving them onto his face, he turned to the wall-mounted clock. "Duncan, it's the middle of the night," he stated, wincing at the horrendous hour. "What's going on?"

Duncan fished through his duffel bag, producing a pair of rather unclean socks and shoving them over his freezing toes. "Does either of you have a Sharpie?" he asked his roommates, spinning around on the ground to face them.

"A Sharpie?" Owen repeated groggily, still recovering from the realization that his marvelous dream had been, once again, not real.

"Yeah, a Sharpie," Duncan shot back, hopping around on one foot in an attempt to put on his shoes in the dark. "You know, a marker. Like a pencil, but with ink?" Giving up, he plopped down onto the ground and tugged on the difficult Converses. Then again, it might have helped if he'd untied the shoelaces first…

Harold readjusted his glasses and rolled over in bed to face Duncan, who sat on the floor next to him. "What do you need a Sharpie for, anyway?" he asked, mildly intrigued, even in his sleep-deprived state.

"None of your business, nerd!" Duncan retorted, shoving Harold's curious face away with one hand. "Just get me a damn Sharpie and you can return to Dreamland."

Harold yawned, kicking off his covers and sitting on the edge of his mattress, skinny legs dangling off the side. "I can hardly imagine," he began grumpily, "that whatever you need a marker for is quite comparable to the benefits of a good night's slee—"

Duncan rolled his eyes and grabbed the red-head by the neck of his shirt, pulling him up and off the ground. "You don't want to finish that sentence," Duncan threatened, his narrowed eyes cutting through the darkness.

Harold yawned again and actually _dared_ finish his sentence. "—sleep!" he squeaked out, his voice even more strangled than usual because of Duncan's hold on his shirt. Whether Harold had finished the sentence because his exhaustion had impaired his judgment or because he'd just happened to develop balls on that particular night, Duncan would never know.

Either way, such rebellion was unacceptable. Duncan knew, he was _barely_ getting through the competition by riding on his fear-factor alone. If he didn't have that, it was over, and he realized it. "You're going to pay for that, dork," he threatened, throwing Harold to the ground. He towered over the boy, who instantly curled up into a self-defensive ball, but Duncan merely nudged him in the side with his foot. "But not tonight."

Harold visibly relaxed.

Giving up on his chicken-legged opponent for the time being, Duncan turned back to Owen (and released a loud "Dude, you're kidding me!"), who once again appeared to be asleep. "_OWEN_!" he yelled in his ear, effectively waking him up and scaring the poor boy half to death. "Bro, I need you to stay awake for me."

After a minute or so, Owen, breathing heavily but no longer on the brink of having a heart attack, pouted and gave Duncan a pleading look. "_Whyyyyyyyyyy?_" he whined. "I'm tired!"

"Agreed," Harold mumbled, pulling himself off the floor and collapsing back into his bunk.

"Guys, seriously," Duncan started, appealing to the pair in front of him. "I don't see what the big deal is. Tomorrow's not a challenge day," he explained. "Sleep in through breakfast and call it even. What's the issue?"

Owen's fell straight out of his bed, eyes widened in disbelief. "SLEEP THROUGH BREAKFAST?!" he questioned. "_BLASPHEMY!_" Fortunately for him, he'd been sleeping on a bottom bunk that night (on account of Chef's macaroni and cheese. He'd gone overboard with his evening food consumption, and getting himself into a top bunk had seemed literally impossible afterwards.) Therefore, the fall was more of a slight tumble than a plunge downward to the trailer floor, which had also happened before and left an Owen-shaped dent in the floor.

Duncan face-palmed, standing there for a moment before pulling his head back up. "Dear God." Running a hand through his Mohawk, he asked more forcefully, "Who has a Sharpie? One of you has to!"

Owen was still floundering around on the carpet, trying to get himself standing again, so Duncan turned to Harold and held out an open hand expectantly.

Harold faced him and, to Duncan's great annoyance, put nothing into his outstretched palm. "Sorry, Duncan, but I don't have one. Besides, even if I did, I don't think I'd give it to y—"

Duncan raised his fists, targeting Harold's nose. "Wanna bet?"

Harold ducked down hastily, covering his face. Thinking back on it, Duncan realized it had been a smart move on behalf of the ginger—Duncan surely would've punched him if it weren't for the slight inconvenience of the defensive position.

A few seconds later, sensing no violence, Harold straightened up. "I really don't have any markers, Duncan. I much prefer pencils. I find that when there isn't the pressure of not making an error for fear of being unable to erase, I perform my calculations to a much higher standard than if—"

Duncan held up a hand to stop him, rolling his eyes. "Owen?" he inquired, turning to the largest of the three boys.

He turned out his pockets for Duncan, revealing about a pound of candy wrappers but no markers. "Sorry, dude," Owen said, chuckling nervously.

Duncan groaned. "Man, you guys are useless!" Flipping the lights on full blast just to demonstrate his irritation, Duncan threw open the trailer door and busted out into the night. A second later, after the door had banged shut, he heard the sounds of a great collision inside, followed by the proclamation, "I'm fine, _gosh!_ Just turn off the lights, Owen!" and then, in response, "Oh, Great Grandpa Eliezer, I'm blind! Ohhhhhh, I'm blind! _I can't see!"_

Duncan snickered. Sure, they hadn't gotten him a Sharpie, but at least he'd gotten his revenge quickly and easily.

_-=-_

Were there no writing utensils in that entire place? None at all? Maybe they were hidden somewhere secret, for staff use only. They probably were, because even Duncan, a mastermind when it came to finding things that weren't supposed to be found, wasn't having much luck locating a simple Sharpie. It was all pretty ridiculous.

He'd already raided his whole trailer and checked the Craft Services tent, neither yielding any results. Plus, the one eye he'd kept on the ground in hopes of finding a dropped pen had turned out useless as well. People were just too dang careful at that place, which Duncan found ironic considering the life-threatening situations he was thrown into just about daily.

So, fifteen minutes later, he found himself on his hands and knees in the washrooms, searching for something—anything—that would write. That wasn't a pencil. A pencil wouldn't work.

It was an emergency of sorts. Or, from his perspective it was. If you called feeling the overwhelming need to carry off a prank on Courtney an emergency, then it was an emergency.

Duncan knew that checking the washrooms for markers was scraping the bottom of the barrel, but he was determined to get his plan executed by the end of the night. Waiting another day would have lessened the impact, therefore decreasing the overall effect and making the whole ordeal more or less useless.

Still on his hands and knees, Duncan searched under the counter for eyeliner, or mascara, or whatever it was those girls used to make themselves attractive. Lindsay probably used a lot of make-up, and as scatterbrained as she was, Duncan figured _something _must have gotten left behind when she'd left. Stuck between the sink and the mirror, rolled off the counter… He didn't care what he found or where he found it just so long as it wrote on human skin. That was the only requirement.

It seemed, however, that the girls were more careful with their glitter and crap than Duncan had originally anticipated; absolutely nothing had been left on the floor! Well, there was a fair amount of mess on the floor, but Duncan found it nauseating, best left ignored. The filth was, in fact, so sickening that Duncan (who was no germaphobe, mind you) felt the uncontrollable desire to wash his hands fifty times and then bust out of there sprinting.

But, back to the whole point of his being there, nothing good was on the floor, and Duncan couldn't understand why not! Eyeliner was just a pencil, right? That was, like, 99 cents worth of wood. Couldn't Lindsay have just…left one behind? _One?_ Girls kept hundreds, and besides, how hard was it to let a pencil roll away?

Momentarily stumped, Duncan peeled his hands off the floor and stood, grimacing at the sticky _pop!_ the tile made upon separation from his skin. Disgusting.

He sighed. He'd already wasted about 15 minutes searching in there and figured it would be best to check out. After all, it wouldn't do for someone to catch him in the washrooms, in the middle of the night, dressed, on the search for make-up. No—what he was planning required the element of surprise. Compromising this by having to explain himself to anyone was totally out of the question.

It was for this very reason that the following words struck a slight sense of panic into his heart, even mumbled by Beth as they were:

"…Duncan? Is that you? What are you doing in here?"

_CRAP! _Duncan hadn't planned on meeting anyone. He was unprepared. It wasn't like he could explain everything away as your average, middle-of-the-night urges—one look at him and even Lindsay would have known he wasn't up for midnight pit-stop—but he couldn't just run straight out of there either, not without Beth figuring out that something was fishy.

The wheels in Duncan's brain started spinning on overdrive. If Beth found out what he was up to, she would go back and tell Courtney, and _that_ would have been the death of an extremely clever idea. Duncan couldn't let that happen.

Trying to pick a course of action, he stood frozen by the sinks, staring at Beth and her more-sideways-than-usual ponytail. Explain or run? Explain or run? Explain or…convince her she was dreaming! She looked tired! It _had_ to work, so it was going to. Simple.

Instantly breaking into a completely improvised, 100 percent retarded interpretive dance, Duncan bounced around Beth, chanting brightly, "This is only a dream… This is a dream, Beth… This is just a dream…" Casting another sideways glance in the baffled girl's direction, he executed a couple of high kicks before dropping to the ground and starting The Worm, repeating, "You are asleep… You are asleep…"

Beth blinked at him and rubbed her lenses-free eyes ferociously, trying to peer through her fuzzy vision and figure out what on Earth was going on. "Wait, Duncan," she said, nearly incoherently, stumbling over to a sink. "I'm not aslee…" But suddenly, comprehension dawned in her little eyes. "Oh my gosh. This really _is_ a dream, isn't it?"

Duncan chuckled to himself, skipping around and waving his arms in the air like a young child. "You're sleeping… You're asleep… This is all a dream, Beth! A dream!" he called out in a wistfully mellow voice, doing his best not to start guffawing in the middle of the charade.

After about a minute of more sissy dancing and stupid chants, Duncan ran out the washrooms, fairly certain that he'd done a fine enough job of acting dream-like. Poking his head back through the door one last time, he whispered, "This never happened," before leaving Beth alone, confused, and thinking that she was unconscious.

Duncan was wandering away from the washrooms, pleased with himself and his acting skills, when he realized: he still didn't have anything to write with.

* * *

Oh, Duncan, you clever devil, you. Why, oh why, are you so bent on finding a marker?

Haha. I hope you all enjoyed that! It's a bit of a side-project for me, which I'm working on in my spare time. You know, The Art Of Pretending It Isn't Your Fault is taking top priority. At any rate, please review if you're interested to see where this story is going!

Thanks for reading!

~Rina


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